Beeba
by cornwallace
Summary: A letter to yourself is vicariously written and read.


Don't even get me started on Whicks," I say, laughing.

"What's wrong with Cherrycoke?" he inquires. Stroking his beard in thinking mode

"Haha. I like his name. His concepts and ideas are interesting. The delivery has a tendency to fall flat, however. He's no Ebbs, I mean. There's no iceberg effect, no conclusions to come to. No different ways to interpret what happened. It's all just there, neatly laid out for every ready - even the ones who haven't connected - to understand."

"Some people like it that way," he says, leaning back in his rocking chair,. The creek of the wood grinding against carpet.

"Of course," I say, laughing, once again. "By all means, he isn't a bad writer. Just not in my taste."

His office has a very homey feel to it. Pictures on the walls of his family, his children. Little trinkets here and there that reflect his own personality and interests. Signed golfball on a tee in the corner. He's also a fan of the Chao, a local football team with a giant Chao for a mascot.

He's a nice guy. Eager to connect with people and learn from them. More importantly, to help them in anyway he can  
>I like him. This is our third session. And this is the third time our counseling has degraded to a debate on the literary arts.<br>Suppose that degraded is the wrong terminology. I kinda push things in this direction as much as I can. I enjoy it. I think he does, too. I can't see anything wrong with that.

"Caine," he speaks up.

"Caine?" I ask.

"Sutter Caine," he says. "Thoughts?"

"Again," I say, chuckling, unsure if I'm overstepping my boundaries. "Caine has good ideas. Interesting is the way I would put them. Though, sitting through an hour and a half of tree description is much more pleasant to read through. I do, however, love how abstract the man can be."

The man strokes his beard, sitting in silence. For a moment, I feel as though I may have done or said something wrong, and I can't quite point it.  
>He's an old cat. Name's Adam. He sits in silence, rubbing his old, grey chinhairs. Big, round glasses.<p>

"I think he should stick to short stories," I say, contemplating my stance in all this. Almost loss, but not quite found.  
>As if I've said something wrong.<p>

"You're not crazy, Miles," he says, flatly. "You're unique. Interesting. A little bit out you're not crazy. Of that, I am certian."

"I'm no more sane than your average folk on the street, day to day. They hold your doors, sell you cheap, overpriced pens. they work the graveyard shift at grocery stores we've never heard of. I'm just like them. I'm just like you and me."

"So, why am I talking to you?" he asks earnestly. "I mean, not that I don't enjoy our conversation. I really do."

"I know..." I say.

"However," you begin, and your words make more sense to me than you could ever possibly imagine before they escape your lips. "What I'm saying is;"

Though  
>I<br>may  
>have<br>problems  
>You<br>Don't  
>BELONG<br>in here.

Everbody has their problems, I guess. The joke that I'm no different than they are strikes me as irony. Perhaps I've understood the concept wrong.

"I guess I feel safer here," I say, eyes drifting to the carpet. Post-modern designs that melt into one another. Easy to get lost in. Lets the eyes and mind wander. "I guess this place makes more sense to me."

"Safer?" he asks. earnestly. "Safe from what?"  
>His face expressing concern.<p>

He actually cares. I can see that.

"I don't know, I say. "From myself, I guess."

"Are you suicidal?"

Bite my lip apprehensively. I don't mean to, but I do.

"There's a distinct possibility," I start, choosing my words as carefully as I possibly can - like I always do. I look back up at him from the carpet. "i might destroy myself, if I'm left long enough to my own devices."

"How long have you fealt this way?"

"For as long as I can remember, I guess. I guess it's only gotten bad within the past few years, though. I mean, I guess. These past few years.

"What happened?"

I don't even know how to respond. I'd never even truly thought about it. One thing after another just kind of happened. The next thing I know, I'm right here, without having giving it much of any thougt, myself. But here I am. Here I sit. He wants answers. And he deserves them.  
>All of this on my own free will. My inmates would kill for that privelage. I don't want it. I don't need it.<br>AT this point, the last thing I truly want to face is the real world.

"Alright," I say, closing my eyes.

* * *

><p>It all started with a girl.<p>

It was simple enough, how we met. Next thing I know, I'm inside of her, telling her I love her, and I'm unsure why. They aren't words I say without meaning them. Next thing I know, I can feel the truth of those words buried deep within my heart. Burning me alive.  
>And I don't know why.<p>

Fast forward.

She's cheated on me by this point - on a hunch that I would do the same to her. She wanted to hurt me first. This was her plan.  
>I'm crying into her breast a lot like a neglected infant would to his bad mother. Forgiving, still loving, but above all, hurt. Hurt beyond measure.<br>We're fucking, but I can't seem to kep myself hard.  
>She's mocking me later, but doesn't understand why.<p>

She doesn't know it's because I can't look at her. It makes me sick to my stomach.

She doesn't uderstand that part of me truly hates her for what she has done to me.

She doesn't understand, while she was referring to me as old man, later, giggling into her hands as if she's come up with something clever. She doesn't understand that all I could think about during sex was how she had betrayed me. She had been tainted - defiled in my eyes. As it was every single time I had these issues with her. I wasn't so sure I wanted to be this close to her anymore. And believe me, this conclusion I came to hurts me far more than it would have ever hurt her.  
>The constant soullessness in her eyes didn't truly dawn on me until it was far too late.<p>

She had already broken my heart. It's why I resented her as much as I did when things went on. Probably why I was so hard on her. Some people think I should have been moreso, but that was never my style. I always felt so horrible when I was being mean to her - hurting her feelings. Even when she supposedly deserved it.

It wasn't very long before I truly hated myself for loving her. And yet, I would still do anything for her. Anything to create that smile, that instance of happiness we could share. She accused me of attempting to buy her love. One of the accusations that hurt the most. I just wanted to make her happy.  
>She meant the world to me.<p>

* * *

><p>"Does she still mean the world to you?" he asks, blinking.<p>

"She doesn't exist anymore," I say. "At least in my world. Perhaps she never did."

"What do you mean?"

* * *

><p>It was very late at night. I had made a conscious decision not to drink before my drive. Amy always hated the fact that I was an alcoholic - not that this decision was hers to make at this point. She was already gone, having me even moreso of a disaster than I was before. I was rebuilding myself. Getting better. Becoming what was needed of me for myself and myself alone. I'm at the point where I look in the mirror and my face doesn't contort out of the control of its own free will.<br>She damaged me in more ways than I can count.

It was snowing, which was odd. It doesn't snow in Station Square.

Years, it had been since I had a girlfriend. I was scared around them. They made me nervous, and i didn't wan't to feel the way _she _made me feel ever again. I'd rather be alone. I'd rather be off the radar.

My life is completely different at this point. Sometimes, it's hard to tell whether or not it's good or bad.

I see a woman walking along the side of the road, in the cold, dark snow. Black coat and blue jeans. Doesn't seem to fit for the weather. She's shivering, very noticably.  
>Pull up next to her and ask her if she's okay. If she needs a ride.<p>

Sometimes, life sucks and then you get lucky.

"The guy I was with kicked me out of his car," she says. "I live just down the road."

"Hop in," I say. It's dark. Too dark to make her out.

I didn't even recognize her.  
>I didn't even recognize her voice.<p>

Everything is so different now.

You might know what's coming, but I sure as fuck didn't.

She gets in the car and my foot lightly presses against the accellorator, dragging us forward into the abyss. My headlights only picking up a few feet of road in the coid of snowflakes and darkness before us.

I try to make small talk.

"So, uh. What is it you do?"

She sighs, "next question, please."

"Sorry," I say, unsure why. Caught in a time-loop; I've felt this moment before. "What's your name?"

"Amy," she says, looking away.

"Amy, huh? I used to know someone named Amy."

"Small world," she says, sarcastically. She's curt, upset and not in the mood for friendly chatter. Understandable, given what she's gone through tonight.

We sit in silence for a moment. I don't want to bother her further. That's when she speaks up.

"What's your name?" she asks, her tone unreadable.

"Miles," I say. "But my friends call me-"

"Tails."

Are her eyes as wide in shock as mine are? Did we come to the same conclusuion at the same time? Of this, I am unsure.  
>I see her head turn towards me from the corner of my eye.<br>This is the moment I discover who and what she is. My heart skips a beat as I turn to look her right in the eye to know for sure when light splashes over my face and the world comes to a stop.

* * *

><p>Open my eyes and my gloved hands are right in front of them. Fingers outstretched, covered in blood.<p>

Stearingwheel in my lap, broken and useless. As are many things in the remains of this wreck.  
>Look over to my right.<br>Her broken, crumpled form. Spattered in red.

Chest heaving in and out, raspingly desperate or oxygen comfort, which she can't seem to attain.  
>Her eyes are more soulfull than they've ever been before.<p>

"I... hate... you..." she breathes.  
>I laugh, coughing up more blood on the dashboard. Not much else you can really do.<p>

I see what's coming.  
>I call the authorities and inform them that we're dying. The lady on dispatch says something I can't understand, so I hang up.<br>Still watching her.

"I'm sorry," I say. Part of me really does mean it. Just not all.

Crudely light a cigarette and watch her as we die together. I didn't want this, but I feel oddly calm at this point. She's still so gorgeous in all ways that matter to me, and I don't mean the physical. There was something there. Part of me still nagging away that she's my one and only true love, even though it's obvious I'm not hers. The rest of me knowing all too well that I'm just an idiot and that's all I ever hae been.  
>In the dim light of what's left of the reflection of the car's headlights, I lose myself, once again into her eyes as her chest stops moving. As the rasping sound of her struggles to breathe leave my ears.<br>When the life leaves her eyes, that's when I truly fall apart.  
>Break down.<br>If only I could have, I would have died right then and there. With her.

But I didn't.

* * *

><p>I survived. I checked myself in here.<p>

Because, here? I can't destroy myself or the people close to me. No matter how far away they might be.  
>I can't lose.<br>I wake up in bed in a bed in the morning, go to sleep in a bed at night. The rest is mostly just filler. It's all the same. There's always someone to net your questions, comments and concerns.

It's like what life was supposed to be. You know, for normal people. Without being clouded by all the bullshit that does little more than corrode you from the inside out.

At best, Amy Rose is a mass of cells and atoms that I no longer recognized. I watched that part of her die.

You ask me why I'm here? It's because things in here make more sense.

And for the first time in years, I feel okey.

What do you think, Doc?


End file.
